Fords of Isen
by Elros Tar-Minyatur
Summary: A small story about Theodred's final hours at the fords of Isen, interspersed with the poem Lament for the Rohirrim. PG for mild violence.


Disclaimer: I don't own LOTR, but it is my goal to do so someday. Enjoy. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.  
  
Where now the horse and the rider?  
  
Where is the horn that was blowing?  
  
Thèodred drew his sword as he stared into the fading night, the faint clash of the metal in his scabbard seeming loud in his ears. Since his defeat North-west of Isen, the slightest sounds were enough to jar him to action. Saruman's hordes had proven themselves to be more that a match for the battle hardened Thèodred, as no orc or man had done before. Thèodred smiled grimly, he had a right to be scared; those giant orcs had ripped through his men as though they were merely children, threatening a mail- clad knight with a switch of green ash.  
Not re-sheathing his sword, he sat down on the cold, hard earth, still clinging the chill of winter, but spring was approaching fast. He thrust his sword into the earth and leaned back, resting his back against a grassy knoll, looking out over the silent fords. He had rarely been in this country before, and he regretted it. It was beautiful. He shook his head and smiled, that such thoughts would come to him at a time like this.  
He looked up as he heard a twig snap nearby, his hand moving to the sword hilt. He relaxed as he saw it was one of his lieutenants and he turned back to his silent vigil of the fords.  
"What was it you wanted Èorin?"  
Èorin shifted from foot to foot nervously, "The scout has returned my lord."  
Thèodred sighed deeply at the obligatory title, cringing at the feeling that he was aloof from his men, unable to connect, unable to make them love him. This was of course untrue, but that didn't make the title go down any easier.  
"Scout? Weren't four sent out?"  
"Yes m'lord, but only Gríthe has returned, badly wounded and weak from lost of blood."  
"Has he said anything? How far he went? Where he met the enemy?"  
"No m'lord. He has done naught but collapse on the ground, but he carried this."  
An iron helmet clattered beside Thèodred. He reached over bringing it close to him. He turned the thing over in his hands, pausing for a moment upon the emblem of Saruman, the white hand upon a black field. It gave off the odor of the orcs, somewhere between feces and rotting flesh, or perhaps a foul mixture of both. He tossed it as far as he could in his sitting position, and it landed with a cut-off splash and the clang of metal hitting rock. He turned back to Èorin, his face set and grim.  
"Yes, Saruman. You did not realize this yet? Not even we rode to challenge his might yester eve?"  
Èorin looked at the ground sheepishly, "No m'lord."  
Thèodred stood, stretched, breathing the misty air of pre-dawn deeply. He turned to his lieutenant.  
"Go and see if you can bring Gríthe around Èorin. And have the men began preparing breastworks, and to hurry. We only have until dusk tonight."  
"Aye m'lord."  
Èorin turned to leave, and as he was walking away Thèodred called after,  
"Oh, and Èorin. . ."  
"Yes m'lord"  
"Don't call me m'lord. Dismissed."  
"Aye sir."  
Thèodred smiled, though the world may be shattered and broken, and all man put under the shadow, some things would never change.  
  
Where is the helm and the hauberk,  
  
And the bright hair flowing?  
  
Where is the hand on the harp string,  
  
And the red fire glowing?  
  
Where is the spring and the harvest  
  
And the tall corn growing?  
  
It was noon on that same day as Thèodred shoveled earth with his bare hands, digging a trench and at the same time making a great mound of earth behind him. Men were coming in from the sparse forests nearby and the ford with wood and rocks to reinforce the earthen barricade. He wiped a filthy hand across his sweaty brow. The bulwarks weren't half completed, and dusk still came early. He shrugged off his mail coat and returned to work.  
Nearly all of his men were unarmored in the heat of the midday sun, and some had cast aside their russet or green tunics and worked bare chested, shoveling the earth to create the defense upon which their lives would rest. A company of a score of men under the command of Èorin were sharpening the ends of stout, straight trees to create spikes to place in the trench. Nearly a hundred men stood on the opposite shore as a stalling force to give the workers time to arm themselves in the unlikely event that foes should attack them before dusk.  
It was obvious that they thought such an event was highly unlikely, and nearly all of them were lazing about, talking idly, sleeping in such shade as there was or eating their rations. A more adventurous group had even dived in to the freezing waters of the Isen. Thèodred shook his head and returned to work. Let them have their fun, he thought; many of them would never see another day.  
Twenty minutes later, he paused to take a deep draft from his water bottle. He ate some stale bread and smoked venison. He sad on top of the bulwarks, looking out over the Isen. He scanned the far bank lazily. He was about to turn away and return to work, when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.  
Something small. Something black. Something with a bow.  
An orc.  
Worse yet, an orc with a bow that was aiming. . . at him!  
Thèodred's mind barely registered all of this and it was only just in time that he fell backwards behind the earthen bulwark. He jumped up, spitting the cold earth from his mouth. His horn was with his other gear, shed at the edge of the water, so instead he shouted out,  
"Hark! The enemy is at our doorstep! Forth Eorlingas!"  
His men were instantly jarred into action, tunics and mail were thrown hastily back on, helmets jammed onto fair hair, spears and swords lifted from where they lay idle on the ground. On the other side of the river, the men under the command of Grimbold were under attack, orcs had come out under the light of day. Neither Thèodred nor Grimbold had ever seen anything like it. Thèodred quickly threw on his discarded mail-coat and picked up his sword, but he left his helm where it lay.  
He gathered a company of what men he could and charged across the river where savage Dunlendings and great Uruks had assaulted the beleaguered Grimbold. He had not yet reached the eyot when a cry of dismay came from the men on the east-bank.  
A company of Dunlendish horsemen and feared Warg riders, followed by two companies of fast moving Uruks, where attacking the guards set to guard the horses, and the horses themselves. Already the animals were scattered wildly across the plains or dead. The garrison of the east-bank stiffened themselves for the sudden onslaught, and Thèodred realized that he had been snared in webs to big for him. His men were trapped, and if he didn't do something quickly, they would all die.  
He quickly analyzed his options. He knew for fact that the force on the eastern bank was less in number, but they were cavalry and fierce looking Orc-men, his unprepared and unhorsed men would be slaughtered. On the other hand, the western force outnumbered him perhaps ten-to-one, and more were coming as he stood in the middle of the Isen, a few feet from the eyot, the strong current threatening to sweep him away. They had no choice, they would have to hold.  
With that in mind, he raised his sword up on high and cried, "To me Eorlingas! To me!"  
Grimbold's men, or rather, those who were still standing, cut through the enemies between them and the eyot, determined to break through to friendly lines. Nearly fifty men from the east-bank ran to the eyot, but the majority stood at the earthen bulwarks, desperately trying to hold their own against the savagery of their foes.  
Thèodred sent what archers he had to the east bank to try and take out the Wargs from under their riders, taking away their advantage. With the rest of his men, he turned to face the massing Uruks on the west bank.  
The snarling Uruks hesitated for a moment, leaving the Rohirrim puzzled. Then they realized that the foul creatures were feeding upon the flesh of those who had fallen on the west side. Thèodred felt his courage begin to waver.  
  
They have passed like rain on the mountain,  
  
Like a wind on a meadow,  
  
Grimbold snatched a spear from one of the soldiers and prepared to throw it at the obvious captain of the orcs. The foul creature held aloft the head of Èorin, who had rushed across the river almost before the arrow was shot. Thèodred stood stunned for a moment, he had liked Èorin, had considered making the young man a captain someday. But it was only for a moment. Thèodred, tears in his eyes, nodded to Grimbold, who in response drew back the spear behind his head as far as he could go. The orc leader sneered at Grimbold, daring him to try. But Grimbold was a man of great stature, and the spear whistled threw the air and plunged into the orc's chest.  
It looked down at the spear protruding almost comically from its chest, looked at the man who had thrown it with its face a mixture of pain and hatred and disbelief and awe. Then it keeled over dead, Èorin's severed head still clutched in its stiffening fist.  
A great shout went up from the orcs and Uruks, sending fear through the hearts of Thèodred's men. Grimbold waved towards the rear, summoning the standard bearers. Thèodred's face was stern as he raised his sword on high and shouted,  
"To me! Fear no darkness! Forth Eorlingas!"  
His words and his banner brought new hope to the troops, and they charged forward after Thèodred and his command with one cry on their lips,  
"FORTH EORLINGAS!!!!"  
With that, they crashed into the waiting Uruks. Their initial onslaught drove the enemy back, dozens of the strangely large orcs falling to lie in pools of their own black blood. Thèodred himself slew eight, one of them bearing the standard of Saruman's armies. Grimbold finished the last up with a quick cut to the throat, and he stood once more at Thèodred's side. The Uruks gathered nearly a hundred yards away, faces full of fear partly for the wild-eyed men who had just assailed and beaten them, but mainly for their fearless leader, fair hair flowing in the breeze, and his savage aide, a man bigger than any of them, and obviously more than a match.  
Thèodred took this opportunity to snatch a new shield from the ground; his was cloven in two in the fierce combat. This one was made of solid oak, bound with iron and steel, and it bore the emblem of a white horse upon a russet field. Grimbold picked up a bow and some arrows scattered upon the ground. He drew the bow back farther than it was ever intended to go as he shouted mockingly to the Uruks,  
"Flee back to your mothers, if any spawned you foul things! Run now or you will taste this!"  
And with that he released the arrow and it passed through the throats of three orcs before finally becoming lodged in the chest-plate of a particularly large Uruk, who was in turn, despite its size, knocked flying backwards. At this, a great many of the lesser orcs fled in terror. The Uruks held fast, and after a moment they charged. Thèodred charged directly into their midst, his troops running behind him.  
The combat was even fiercer this time. The Uruks charged in, uncaring for their own lives, there were always two more to take their place. Thus the Rohirrim were forced to fight defensively, relying heavily on their shields, and therefore they gave ground. Soon Thèodred stood practically alone among the great Uruks of Isengard.  
He stabbed one through the throat, and then brought his sword around to trip another, dispatching the unfortunate Uruk before it hit the dirt. He parried a vicious blow from another orc and their blades locked. It snared at him, and he calmly brought his shield up to bash it in the head. It fell unconscious to the ground and he dispatched it with a quick stab. Another came at him and he ran it through, the sneering visage coming to a halt mere inches from his neck. One grabbed him from behind as the flow of battle passed behind him. He kicked up with the heel of his boot. The orc fell away squealing in pain and Thèodred realized he was alone.  
He turned back to the fords, scarcely thirty yards away, to see the entire space crawling with Uruks. 'Damnation!!' he mentally raged. The nearest Rohirrim however, was three yards away. He hacked two Uruks to pieces and soon he stood with the struggling soldier. The other nodded his thanks and they fought their way to another Rider standing alone against the crush of the Uruks. The trio assumed a 'fighting triangle' position, rotating slowly as they moved back to the Rohirric lines. It was soon clear that they would not make it. The first soldier Thèodred had reached fell to a sharp jab from a pike, and the other was wounded. The latter fell to the ground and was set upon by a score of orcs, hunger in their eyes. He fought them off for a few moments but was soon torn apart as the Uruks satisfied their lust for human flesh. Thèodred fended off his own attackers for a minute or three, and finally they overwhelmed him, and he received a great gash to his left side. He snarled and bashed the offender with his shield with an audible 'CRACK' and the Uruk fell motionless to the ground. A slice from a wicked looking sword wielded by one of the Dunlendings found his temple, and he finally fell.  
Grimbold watched the scene unfold with horror. He wished to go to his Prince's side, but was loath to leave his men with no captain. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see one of his youngest men, watching him with a steady gaze.  
"Lead on, to whatever end."  
"To whatever end," the big man mused softly.  
A small tear rolled down Grimbold's cheek as he clapped the man on his shoulder. He wheeled about, all tenderness gone. He turned to the standard bearer and nodded, and the man lifted Thèodred's banner on high as Grimbold blew the horn of Rohan.  
With new energy and spirit the Rohirrim charged forward screaming into the Uruks. As was the case before, many Uruks fell and the rest wavered. When Grimbold slew four with one sweep as he rushed to Thèodred's aid, they fled, back behind the hills of the watershed.  
Four soldiers bore Thèodred's body back to the eyot, where they set him down and left him alone with Grimbold. With much effort, Thèodred opened his eyes and lifted his head.  
"What of the east bank?" he managed weakly, "Do our men still hold?"  
Grimbold had just then remembered that there was a battle on the other side of the fords as well. He looked to the east.  
"Well?" Thèodred gasped.  
Grimbold shook his head sadly, "No m'lord, the east bank is lost. The men are scattered or dead, save a few who withdrew here."  
"Then it is over."  
"I'm afraid so m'lord."  
The pair sat for a moment longer, on an island amidst a sea of enemies. On the horizon, Grimbold suddenly spotted a small shape, somewhat like a man on a horse. Then, faintly, he heard a horn being blown.  
He jumped up, "Oh m'lord! We are saved! That is the horn of Elfhelm if I am not mistaken! Forth Eorlingas!"  
Thèodred's face fell. "Elfhelm?" he asked incredulously, but there was a note of sadness to it, "Are you sure?"  
"Quite sure m'lord!"  
  
The days have gone down in the west  
  
Behind the hills into shadow  
  
Who shall gather smoke of the dead wood burning,  
  
Or behold the flowing years of the sea returning?  
  
Thèodred closed his eyes, but he would never again reopen them, "Pity," he gasped, "I had hoped to see Èomer again before I passed. Farewell Grimbold. Leave me here to hold the fords until Èomer comes."  
And with these words, Thèodred, son of Théoden, passed from the realms of the mortal world. Grimbold wept softly as he looked into the fair face. He drew his horn and put it to his lips, crying and he played a small funeral hymn as the cavalry of Elfhelm swept the enemy away from the fords of Isen.  
  
The End Feedback is appreciated, thanks. 


End file.
